Three Quarter Time
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Song One of the 2008 Christmas Songbook, based on "The Christmas Waltz". Mark and Addison choose a Christmas tree and spend some fluffy, slightly angsty time on their first Christmas together. Song Two can be found in the Private Practice section.


"It's not a blue spruce, Mark. If it was, it'd be a lot more expensive."

She stands in the Christmas tree lot, mittened hands shoved deep into her pockets, and shivering violently as the cold Connecticut air catches her under her cropped jacket, but instead of returning to complaints about potential hypothermia, she's staring critically at the tree that, personally, you think looks pretty good.

Just for posterity's sake, you shake your head. "The tag says blue spruce, Addie. I'm pretty sure that it is what it reads."

"Mark, trust me, I know what a blue spruce looks like. That's not one. It's false advertising."

You give her a wicked grin. "Do you want to ask the salesman?"

"No! I don't care what it is." She stamps her foot impatiently. "Pay the man and let's get out of here. It's too cold to breathe."

"I don't know," you reply, looking around. It's an idyllic scene. The snow is falling; children are laughing and pointing up at tall firs that seem to almost touch the opaline sky, slowly darkening into a pewter grey.

But Addison isn't in the mood for snow. "Come on, Mark." She does a dance that looks suspiciously like a potty dance, but that you know is really her "I'm cold and I'm done" dance from each Prada boot to the other.

You pay the man with a fistful of cash and watch as he ties the fake blue spruce and loads it into the back of the four-wheel-drive that Addison hates and you drive just to piss her off (no, you haven't gotten around to telling her that it's a hybrid yet – all in good time). As she cranks the heat to high and sits, shivering, you relent a little bit.

"Do you want to go to Starbucks?"

The very words turn the scowl on her face to a smile. "Really? Are you buying?"

"No, I thought you could," you quip, but then grin as she smacks you on the shoulder. "Yeah, my treat." You wrap your arm around her shoulder for a moment, and watch her cheeks slowly flush as you drop a kiss on her hair (that still smells like her peppermint shampoo).

Curled up in front of the fire, she details her day as you stir your grande house blend – one cream, one sugar. Addison doesn't suffer from such qualms as having to keep up appearances by consuming a cool, chic drink; she's drinking a peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy sprinkles and as you watch, she gets a tiny bit on her nose and then giggles.

"I love this stuff," she says, and shoots you a look over the cup. It's the first Christmas you've spent together, and you know from experience that she becomes ten times younger around this time of year; what you haven't experienced is the twinkle in her eyes, the way she'll bitch about the cold but fling her arms out in a snowstorm, letting each flake kiss her skin and hair and lips. She embraces the season wholeheartedly, and although you don't, you can't help but get caught up in the mood.

So instead of a snarky remark, you smile back, a little more gently than is normal for you. "Yeah. I love it too." And right now, you're not telling any lies.

Later on, you swear under your breath as you heave the tree in the house and spend ten excruciating minutes trying to heft a seven-foot spruce into the exact right place that Addison wants.

"Mark, I want it kitty corner to the couch. That doesn't mean two feet to the left of the fireplace."

You sigh loudly from behind the tree and heave it over a smidge. "Better?"

"No, it's still off-centre." She grabs the other end and peers through the needled branches at you. All is evergreen-scented, and for a moment, you grin like a little kid as she finds your eyes through the maze of branches.

"Hi."

"Hi. Now, can you heave it over another foot? Please?"

"Addison, this tree weighs a ton. I don't know about you, but if I don't put it down soon, I can't help you decorate the tree. And that means that the star will have to be off-centre," you announce recklessly, knowing that she'll freak out. Perfection is key for Addison's holiday.

She grimaces at you. "Point taken. It's fine here."

As you position the tree's uneven trunk in the flimsy Christmas tree stand (swearing included!), she delves into one of the boxes of ornaments.

"Mark! Here's the Lenox ornament that my brother gave us last Christmas . . . isn't it gorgeous?" Addison hands you the delicate glass ball and you try not to break it as you finally push the tree into place.

"Addie, I'm attempting to ensure the tree doesn't fall over. I can't hold priceless items that break easily when I'm doing this."

She wrinkles her nose, but hangs it on the tree anyway. You roll your eyes and get to wrestling with the lights. They're expensive LED lights, but the string tangles like any other light string and you spend a good fifteen minutes disentangling and cursing every five minutes as Addison sits quietly on the couch, her legs crossed, watching you.

You sit down beside the box and get ready to pass ornaments, to ensure that only Addison's hands do all the work, since she dictates all Christmas activities (it's just easier this way). As you pass ornaments, she hums under her breath. Because Addison is so tall, she doesn't really need help decorating the tree, and you start to relax, listening to her soft soprano and the crackle of the fire.

Unthinkingly, you pass her a box with crumbling yellowed tape on the sides and she pauses in her ornament-hanging. "Where'd you find that?"

"In the box," you shrug, and open it. Inside, you find a battered little pink ornament that reads "Baby's First Christmas".

"It's just a little baby ornament," you say, and hand it over, but the peaceful mood has changed. Addison is staring at the ornament and her face suddenly crumples.

"Oh, hey." You stand up, but she shakes her head.

"Baby's First Christmas. Oh, Mark." And then you know – she doesn't always talk about it; but the decision was made and in the festivities, you failed to realize that opportunity has passed and that this would have been the first Christmas if the baby had been allowed to exist.

You try not to think about it, but you get a stab and end up holding her tightly, waiting for the waves of hurt to stop breaking over your heads.

"It's okay," you whisper into her hair. "It's okay. It's okay."

The ornament is packed away into the box, left to gather dust another year, but later, when you return to make sure the fire is put out before bed, you catch a glimpse of pink at the very back of the tree.

Right in the middle of the branches, tucked safely away, is the ornament.

Despite the circumstance, you smile suddenly and feel her arms on your back.

"Hey."

"Hey. I didn't want it to be packed away after all."

You hold her close. "No, it shouldn't be. It was part of our history. Is part of it."

"Yeah."

No more needs to be said, but you kiss her hair anyway. "I don't blame you. You did what you had to."

After a minute –

"Thank you, Mark. Really."

Yeah, it doesn't matter how many trees you wrestle with – this fake blue spruce just wouldn't be perfect without her, quirks and all.


End file.
